Synopsis
The Devil's Right Hand is the story of Jack Keller, a man tormented by the nightmares he's had ever since a disastrous tour in Desert Storm. Destroyed by his experience, Keller now makes his living tracking bailjumpers for H&H, a North Carolina bail bonds company run by a reclusive, beautiful, and horribly scarred woman named Angela. In truth, Keller doesn't work bail enforcement to live, he lives to work: the only thing that breaks through the numbness is the thrill of the hunt, the sound of gunfire, the high that comes with each successful takedown.
When H&H is required to track down a lifelong loser for jumping bail on a routine burglary collar, Keller has no idea how gravely events are about to spiral out of his control. He chases his quarry straight into the center of a firestorm involving a pair of local Indians blinded by rage and hell-bent to avenge their father's murder. Along the way they encounter a vicious North Carolina cop with a mean streak and very few moral boundaries. Not to mention the cop's beautiful partner Marie, caught between a newfound desire for the just-on-the-edge-of-the-law Jack Keller and her loyalty to a police department with a serious ethics problem.
These people, each hurtling forward on their own individual trajectories of self-destruction, begin to intersect each other's lives in a series of volatile, escalating, and deadly events. Furiously paced and filled with unforgettable, masterfully drawn characters destined to meet in a bloody showdown which most of them will not survive, The Devil's Right Hand is a stylish, razor-edged debut novel that redefines the rules of the Southern thriller.
When H&H is required to track down a lifelong loser for jumping bail on a routine burglary collar, Keller has no idea how gravely events are about to spiral out of his control. He chases his quarry straight into the center of a firestorm involving a pair of local Indians blinded by rage and hell-bent to avenge their father's murder. Along the way they encounter a vicious North Carolina cop with a mean streak and very few moral boundaries. Not to mention the cop's beautiful partner Marie, caught between a newfound desire for the just-on-the-edge-of-the-law Jack Keller and her loyalty to a police department with a serious ethics problem.
These people, each hurtling forward on their own individual trajectories of self-destruction, begin to intersect each other's lives in a series of volatile, escalating, and deadly events. Furiously paced and filled with unforgettable, masterfully drawn characters destined to meet in a bloody showdown which most of them will not survive, The Devil's Right Hand is a stylish, razor-edged debut novel that redefines the rules of the Southern thriller.
"synopsis" may belong to another edition of this title.
About the Author
J.D. Rhoades lives and practices law in Carthage, North Carolina, where he is at work on a follow-up to The Devil's Right Hand.
Reviews
Loaded with testosterone and high-caliber weapons, Rhoades's hard-boiled debut lurches from one bloody gun battle to another in the streets and back alleys of Fayetteville, N.C., as a bounty hunter finds himself drawing highly unwelcome attention. When dim-witted cousins DeWayne and Leonard kill an old Lumbee Indian during their first armed robbery, they get a load of trouble along with the cash. Raymond, one of the victim's sons and a vicious local crime boss, vows to kill everyone involved with his father's death. Caught in between is Jack Keller, a bail bondsman's enforcer; he's after DeWayne for skipping out on his breaking and entering bail. A Gulf War veteran tormented by guilt over the deaths of his squad members in a friendly fire incident, Jack must now deal with the two armed robbers, crazed Raymond and his gang of assorted Colombian gunmen, and sadistic cops who mistakenly think he's the cause of all the mayhem. Resourceful and determined, Jack happily lays out a few bad guys himself, but he's annoyed that everybody wants to kill him, too. He is arrested, beaten up, shot at and pursued, making miraculous escapes each time in the best pulp fiction tradition. Add spectacular car chases, kidnapping, torture, carjacking, a dozen killings and lukewarm sex scenes, and this gritty novel has everything it needs except for suspense, mystery and likable characters.
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*Starred Review* Rhoades slaps this supercharged crime-fiction debut into overdrive in the first paragraph and never lets up through nearly 300 pages of nonstop action. It starts with a simple armed robbery in which two dumb and dumber ex-cons, Leonard and DeWayne, set out to steal the weekly payroll from an elderly Native American who owns a construction company. It quickly goes wrong, however, and the owner is killed. Meanwhile, bounty hunter Jack Keller, a Gulf War vet with a head full of nightmares, is already tracking bail-jumper DeWayne. He'll have to hurry, though, if he hopes to find his quarry before the dead man's son, a drug dealer who is every bit as violent and considerably crazier than the killers he tracks. Throw in a couple of psycho cops with a thing about bounty hunters, and you have the narrative equivalent of a string of homemade bombs timed to explode at random along the Arkansas back roads. Like Stephen Hunter's Dirty White Boys, however, this is not simply a car-chase-with-fireworks novel; Rhoades builds his rampaging white boys from the ground up, complete with believable backstory and humanizing shots of Pulp Fiction-like humor. Keller is a definite keeper, the kind of flawed noir hero that women want to nurse, cops want to bust, and bad guys want to hurt. There's a formula at work here, of course, but Rhoades never gives us time to feel manipulated. More Keller, please, and soon. Bill Ott
Copyright © American Library Association. All rights reserved
Excerpt. © Reprinted by permission. All rights reserved.
CHAPTER 1
"She ain't no damn lesbian," the stocky man said.
"Sure she is," the skinny one said. "Didn't you see that MTV show? Man, Madonna had her tongue right down that girl's throat."
They were sitting in the front seat of a dented pickup truck, pulled back into the woods. From there they could see the trailer the timber company used as an office. It was 5:30 in the morning, and the sky was brightening. A few stray wisps of fog hugged the grass, flowing sluggishly in the humid air. Rusting log trucks loomed in a field behind the trailer, looking like ancient behemoths in the mist.
They had been in place since four A.M. Boredom had finally trumped the need for stealth so they had turned the radio on low. Britney Spears was moaning that she had done it again.
"Man, you got to be crazy," the big one said. "She was goin' with that guy from the who is it, the Backseat Boys. She gave up her cherry for him."
"Well, there y'are, then," the skinny one said triumphantly. "Ever'one knows those guys is all faggots. It was all a cover, man. Like that Richard Gere and Cindy Crawford. All them Hollywood homos cover for one another."
"An' you believe that shit?" the stocky one said. He ran a hand through his thick dark hair. He had kept it trimmed short in prison, thinking it gave him a more menacing appearance. Now it was growing back out, and it was taking some getting used to.
There was a brief flash of headlights through the trees. He reached down and snapped the radio off. "You sure about this now, cuz?" He asked for what seemed like the fiftieth time.
"Sure I'm sure," the skinny man replied. He recited the facts again, with the patience of a special-ed teacher repeating a lesson for a slow pupil. He didn't get irritated; it made him feel good to be the one who knew something for a change. All his life, his older cousin had gotten to do everything first. Drink beer, get laid, get arrested. Now it was DeWayne's turn to lead.
"The old man don't hire nobody but Mexicans to do his cuttin' and haulin'. They don't work for nothin' but cash money. They don't pay no taxes that way, see, and neither does the old man. I seen him in the bank the last few Thursdays, gettin' out a big bag of cash. He brings it back here, puts it in the safe for payday Friday."
"I still think we oughta just break in and take the safe out," the stocky one said. "We can find somebody to get it open."
"You wanna bring a stranger in on this?" the skinny one demanded. "Idn't that how you got caught last time? We can trust each other, Leonard, 'cause we're family. But anyone else'll sell you out in a hot second."
"You don't know, DeWayne," Leonard said. "You ain't never done nothin' like this before. Armed robbery is serious s hit compared to B and E, man. This DA's got a real serious hard-on for armed robbers. 'Sides, you think that old dude don't have a gun, carryin' around that much cash?" He shook his head and looked out the window, his face glum. "This s hit is dangerous."
"You wanna back out, cuz," DeWayne said, "you better do it now. Here he comes." Another pickup, this one at least thirty years old, pulled up in front of the trailer/office. An old man in coveralls got out. He looked to be at least seventy, but his step was sure and confident. He went up the steps of the trailer. He paused a moment on the narrow porch that ran across the front, while he rummaged through a ring of keys. He found the correct one, opened the door and disappeared inside.
"When he comes out," said DeWayne, "he'll have the bag. He takes it out to the job site so he can pay the Mexicans off at the end of the day." Sure enough, in a few minutes the old man came out and walked to the truck. He was carrying a large canvas bag.
The two men got out of their truck. DeWayne let Leonard take the lead. Even though he had let most of his muscle go to fat in his last stay in the joint, Leonard's size still made him intimidating.
"Mornin', sir," Leonard said.
The old man stopped and turned towards them. His eyes were pale green, and made a startling contrast to his skin, which was a light caramel color. "Hep you fellows?" he said in the flat nasal accent of the Lumbee Indian.
f0
Leonard pulled his gun. He was carrying a long-barreled .44, DeWayne a snub-nosed .38. "Let's do this easy, old man, and no one has to get hurt," DeWayne said.
"Just put the bag down on the ground, and step away real slow," Leonard said.
The old man didn't move. He looked first at DeWayne, then at Leonard.
"S hit," was all he said.
"What are you talkin' about, man?" DeWayne's voice was high, almost cracking with the strain of adrenaline. He felt the familiar dizzy sensation of things slipping out of his control.
Both of them saw the old man's hand go into the bag. "Don't do it, man." Leonard shouted as the hand came out holding a small automatic. Both Leonard's and DeWayne's guns barked at once, the sharp cracks muffled by the soggy air. One shot went wide and struck the side of the truck. The other hammered the old man back against the door. The only change in his expression was a grimace of pain, then blankness. The automatic slid from his fingers as he slumped to the ground.
"God d amn it!" Leonard shouted at the old man. "The f uck'd you do that for?" The man didn't answer.
DeWayne rushed forward and grabbed the bag, kicking the automatic further away with his foot as he did so. He needn't have bothered. The man looked straight ahead, not noticing the bag, the gun, or the rising sun in his eyes. He was dead.
The young paratrooper was full of piss and vinegar, pumped up on the Airborne mystique, and stumbling drunk as well. He looked like he was ready to make an issue out of Keller talking so long to the redhead. Keller didn't see what claim the kid had on the girl, other than the fact she had been recently been grinding her crotch on the kid's lap, but he didn't have time to argue. He showed the kid a peek of the 9mm hanging in a shoulder rig beneath his coat. It was enough to make even a drunk kid realize that attitude and training don't make anyone bulletproof. The young soldier did a quick fade into the crowd and Keller turned back to the dancer who called herself Misty.
A lot of people would find it difficult to concentrate on an interview when the interviewee is a redhead wearing only a transparent silk teddy. Keller kept reminding himself he had a job to do and not a lot of time to do it in. Misty helped take his mind off prurient interests by the way she cracked her bubble gum and looked bored. She was no more aware of her clothes, or lack of them, than if she had been in uniform behind the counter at Mickey D's.
"Crystal worked here for a while," she said. It was Saturday night, and the strip club was crowded and noisy. Misty had to shout into Keller's ear to be heard. "She was cute, had a nice figure," she went on "but her heart wasn't really in it, you know? It was like she was half asleep most of the time. Customers want you to be, like, into it. So she left. I don't know where she went."
Keller could see a big guy in a black tuxedo vest and bow tie working his way through the crowd. He wondered for a second how anyone with no visible neck could wear a bow tie. He figured someone had tipped the bouncer off that he was carrying. Keller had all the right permits, but he didn't expect that to cut any ice with the neckless wonder. He flipped Misty a business card.
"If you hear anything," he said, "call me on my cell phone." He had to shout the last phrase, since the music was increasing from the merely deafening to the truly painful. It was time for the next show.
She looked at the card blankly and blew a bubble. "You a bail bondsman?" she said.
"I work for one," he said. He sidled through the crowd towards the door.
Copyright 2005 by J.D. Rhoades
"She ain't no damn lesbian," the stocky man said.
"Sure she is," the skinny one said. "Didn't you see that MTV show? Man, Madonna had her tongue right down that girl's throat."
They were sitting in the front seat of a dented pickup truck, pulled back into the woods. From there they could see the trailer the timber company used as an office. It was 5:30 in the morning, and the sky was brightening. A few stray wisps of fog hugged the grass, flowing sluggishly in the humid air. Rusting log trucks loomed in a field behind the trailer, looking like ancient behemoths in the mist.
They had been in place since four A.M. Boredom had finally trumped the need for stealth so they had turned the radio on low. Britney Spears was moaning that she had done it again.
"Man, you got to be crazy," the big one said. "She was goin' with that guy from the who is it, the Backseat Boys. She gave up her cherry for him."
"Well, there y'are, then," the skinny one said triumphantly. "Ever'one knows those guys is all faggots. It was all a cover, man. Like that Richard Gere and Cindy Crawford. All them Hollywood homos cover for one another."
"An' you believe that shit?" the stocky one said. He ran a hand through his thick dark hair. He had kept it trimmed short in prison, thinking it gave him a more menacing appearance. Now it was growing back out, and it was taking some getting used to.
There was a brief flash of headlights through the trees. He reached down and snapped the radio off. "You sure about this now, cuz?" He asked for what seemed like the fiftieth time.
"Sure I'm sure," the skinny man replied. He recited the facts again, with the patience of a special-ed teacher repeating a lesson for a slow pupil. He didn't get irritated; it made him feel good to be the one who knew something for a change. All his life, his older cousin had gotten to do everything first. Drink beer, get laid, get arrested. Now it was DeWayne's turn to lead.
"The old man don't hire nobody but Mexicans to do his cuttin' and haulin'. They don't work for nothin' but cash money. They don't pay no taxes that way, see, and neither does the old man. I seen him in the bank the last few Thursdays, gettin' out a big bag of cash. He brings it back here, puts it in the safe for payday Friday."
"I still think we oughta just break in and take the safe out," the stocky one said. "We can find somebody to get it open."
"You wanna bring a stranger in on this?" the skinny one demanded. "Idn't that how you got caught last time? We can trust each other, Leonard, 'cause we're family. But anyone else'll sell you out in a hot second."
"You don't know, DeWayne," Leonard said. "You ain't never done nothin' like this before. Armed robbery is serious s hit compared to B and E, man. This DA's got a real serious hard-on for armed robbers. 'Sides, you think that old dude don't have a gun, carryin' around that much cash?" He shook his head and looked out the window, his face glum. "This s hit is dangerous."
"You wanna back out, cuz," DeWayne said, "you better do it now. Here he comes." Another pickup, this one at least thirty years old, pulled up in front of the trailer/office. An old man in coveralls got out. He looked to be at least seventy, but his step was sure and confident. He went up the steps of the trailer. He paused a moment on the narrow porch that ran across the front, while he rummaged through a ring of keys. He found the correct one, opened the door and disappeared inside.
"When he comes out," said DeWayne, "he'll have the bag. He takes it out to the job site so he can pay the Mexicans off at the end of the day." Sure enough, in a few minutes the old man came out and walked to the truck. He was carrying a large canvas bag.
The two men got out of their truck. DeWayne let Leonard take the lead. Even though he had let most of his muscle go to fat in his last stay in the joint, Leonard's size still made him intimidating.
"Mornin', sir," Leonard said.
The old man stopped and turned towards them. His eyes were pale green, and made a startling contrast to his skin, which was a light caramel color. "Hep you fellows?" he said in the flat nasal accent of the Lumbee Indian.
f0
Leonard pulled his gun. He was carrying a long-barreled .44, DeWayne a snub-nosed .38. "Let's do this easy, old man, and no one has to get hurt," DeWayne said.
"Just put the bag down on the ground, and step away real slow," Leonard said.
The old man didn't move. He looked first at DeWayne, then at Leonard.
"S hit," was all he said.
"What are you talkin' about, man?" DeWayne's voice was high, almost cracking with the strain of adrenaline. He felt the familiar dizzy sensation of things slipping out of his control.
Both of them saw the old man's hand go into the bag. "Don't do it, man." Leonard shouted as the hand came out holding a small automatic. Both Leonard's and DeWayne's guns barked at once, the sharp cracks muffled by the soggy air. One shot went wide and struck the side of the truck. The other hammered the old man back against the door. The only change in his expression was a grimace of pain, then blankness. The automatic slid from his fingers as he slumped to the ground.
"God d amn it!" Leonard shouted at the old man. "The f uck'd you do that for?" The man didn't answer.
DeWayne rushed forward and grabbed the bag, kicking the automatic further away with his foot as he did so. He needn't have bothered. The man looked straight ahead, not noticing the bag, the gun, or the rising sun in his eyes. He was dead.
The young paratrooper was full of piss and vinegar, pumped up on the Airborne mystique, and stumbling drunk as well. He looked like he was ready to make an issue out of Keller talking so long to the redhead. Keller didn't see what claim the kid had on the girl, other than the fact she had been recently been grinding her crotch on the kid's lap, but he didn't have time to argue. He showed the kid a peek of the 9mm hanging in a shoulder rig beneath his coat. It was enough to make even a drunk kid realize that attitude and training don't make anyone bulletproof. The young soldier did a quick fade into the crowd and Keller turned back to the dancer who called herself Misty.
A lot of people would find it difficult to concentrate on an interview when the interviewee is a redhead wearing only a transparent silk teddy. Keller kept reminding himself he had a job to do and not a lot of time to do it in. Misty helped take his mind off prurient interests by the way she cracked her bubble gum and looked bored. She was no more aware of her clothes, or lack of them, than if she had been in uniform behind the counter at Mickey D's.
"Crystal worked here for a while," she said. It was Saturday night, and the strip club was crowded and noisy. Misty had to shout into Keller's ear to be heard. "She was cute, had a nice figure," she went on "but her heart wasn't really in it, you know? It was like she was half asleep most of the time. Customers want you to be, like, into it. So she left. I don't know where she went."
Keller could see a big guy in a black tuxedo vest and bow tie working his way through the crowd. He wondered for a second how anyone with no visible neck could wear a bow tie. He figured someone had tipped the bouncer off that he was carrying. Keller had all the right permits, but he didn't expect that to cut any ice with the neckless wonder. He flipped Misty a business card.
"If you hear anything," he said, "call me on my cell phone." He had to shout the last phrase, since the music was increasing from the merely deafening to the truly painful. It was time for the next show.
She looked at the card blankly and blew a bubble. "You a bail bondsman?" she said.
"I work for one," he said. He sidled through the crowd towards the door.
Copyright 2005 by J.D. Rhoades
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